


Dread and Sherlock Holmes

by Jay_eagle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dom!Sherlock, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, Fear, Frottage, M/M, Sub!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-20 00:22:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1489837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jay_eagle/pseuds/Jay_eagle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during Sherlock, S2, The Hounds of Baskerville. Sherlock is overcome with fear. He's so wound up and desperate for something to bring him back to solid reality that he can't stop himself from pinning John against the wall, and fucking him almost painfully roughly. Fortunately, John turns out not to mind. At all. (Original prompt can be found <a href="http://shkinkmeme.livejournal.com/9516.html?thread=22255916#t22255916">here</a>.)<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Dread and Sherlock Holmes

“Why would you listen to me?” John asked, sardonically. “I’m just your friend.” ****

Sherlock reacted instantly, disgustedly. “I don’t have... friends.” The last word was hissed out with an unwonted vehemence.

Hurt, detectable for just a microsecond, flashed across John’s face. “No.”  His voice was perfectly level, despite the strong emotion beneath. “I wonder why?” Clearing his throat, he stood abruptly and strode out of the room, his exit watched curiously by several of the other patrons. Sherlock’s eyes stayed resolutely fixed on his drink, however. He grabbed the glass and swigged down the last drops of whisky. He hated to drink, normally; anything that clouded his brain or numbed his senses was anathema to him – but tonight, all he’d wanted was not to feel, to chase away the terror stalking his brain. Hadn’t he tried to explain it to John? John –

A new terror suddenly rose in his brain. He had to go after John, to make him understand – he couldn’t lose him - his own senses were deserting him and John had left, too... Sherlock dragged himself to his feet and stepped swiftly from the pub dining room. Looking left and right, he quickly deduced that John had gone into the garden by the residual waft of cooler air and the remaining undisturbed marks from the housekeeper’s earlier vacuuming of the stairs. Pushing open the door, he strode into the garden, just in time to catch sight of John’s jacket disappearing back into the pub, through the other door at the end of the terrace. He must be taking the back stairs up to his room. Sherlock followed him without a second thought, his brain giving another involuntary shudder as the smell of the dew on the grass instantly threw up memories of that _thing_ , that impossible, hellish THING in the hollow.

He quickened his steps, noting the slight fuzziness behind his eyes that was the result of three tumblers of whisky, gulped in quick succession. Shouldering open the terrace door, he sighed with relief to put the wild, illogical outside behind him – then instantly reproached himself blisteringly for giving in to these pathetic emotions. His breathing quickened, though, as his body betrayed him; fresh bursts of adrenaline thundered their way through his system, speeding his heart, beading cold sweat upon his brow. He felt pure fear warring with the alcohol coursing through his veins as he pounded up the steps behind John – John, who had unlocked his room at the top of the stairs and had stepped in, about to disappear from his sight. Dread gave Sherlock a last burst of speed and before John knew what was happening, Sherlock had burst into his room after him, shoving his way in and slamming the door behind them both so hard that the wall shook and a light sprinkle of plaster dust from the ceiling coated them both.

“Sherlock, what -?” began John, looking bewildered, but with the remains of his anger still visible across his features.

Seeing his companion’s incomprehension in the face of his panic and discomfort, a wave of rage broke again in Sherlock’s mind. Couldn’t John understand what this meant to him? His whole existence was built on trusting his senses, on being able to rely completely on his perceptions of the universe. If that was gone, then he was just – ordinary – another useless homo sapiens scrabbling futilely across the surface of the world –

Sherlock suddenly realised he’d practically been shouting this stream of consciousness out loud at the other man, whose mouth had dropped open in shock. A cruel thought flashed through Sherlock’s mind – how beast-like John looked in his stupefaction – how asinine. Without thinking, the detective had taken two quick paces forward, wanting to snap John out of inaction. He needed John, needed him to bring clarity as he so often could. Why was he apparently incapable now, just when Sherlock needed him most? He raised his hand to grab John’s shoulder and the doctor started, like a spooked horse.

This was a fresh betrayal in Sherlock’s mind. How dare John show fear? If both of them were frightened – there was no hope. He shoved at the doctor with more violence than he’d intended and John stepped backwards, now pressed firmly back against the wall, with nowhere to retreat to. An indefinable emotion blazed from his eyes as he gaped at Sherlock, whose face was paler than its usual white – just two hectic spots of red on his cheeks the only proof of the violent rage which now possessed him.

“How can you be afraid, John?” Sherlock half-shouted. “How can you show fear? You were a soldier, for God’s sake, man.” He sneered in John’s face, seeing the man’s eyes go wide, still unable to ascertain quite what was running through his mind, but feeling his shoulder trembling under his hand. The passion of rage had dimmed the racing terror in his head, but he could still feel it as an undercurrent, rushing in the background. Sherlock felt as though any moment he could be grabbed from behind by something monstrous – felt his back unprotected whilst he shoved John harder against the wall and shook him. The aggression coursing through him battled with the small part of him that was still trying to apply logic to the situation, subduing it completely. The instant John raised a defensive hand to his chest, logic snapped. His right hand still pinning John’s shoulder to the wall, his left seized John’s upraised arm and forced it high above his head, clamping him to the wall by his wrist.

“Sherlock –“ gasped John, his voice cracking with strain.

Sherlock ignored the plea in the other man’s voice as his aggression uncoiled in his stomach, like a striking snake. He looked into John’s eyes – the eyes that before tonight had gazed at him with trust, admiration, irritation, friendship – but never with this indefinable expression; not pity, not even concern – why couldn’t he name it? The fear that he had lost his powers of deduction overwhelmed him again and he desired only to make John stop staring at him, to close his eyes. Perhaps a subdued circuit of logic fired briefly in him, causing him to quickly solve the problem of no-hands-spare-make-John-close-eyes-adults-close-eyes-when-kissed and without a moment’s hesitation he plunged his head downwards to close lips with the doctor.

John had just had time to gasp at Sherlock’s actions, which left his mouth half-open as their lips met. Sherlock’s tongue firmly brushed his lips, leaving him loath to close it, but he dragged his head away from his incapacitated, fear-unbalanced companion, turning to the side, so that now the detective’s lips were fumbling along his cheekbone, to his ear, licking and sucking possessively. John hissed as Sherlock applied his teeth to his neck, tracing a firm line down his jugular, and trembled beneath Sherlock’s touch.

At the moment he had kissed John, Sherlock’s passion had mutated swiftly and smoothly. He desired John, this man quivering as he pinned him – though John had more trained muscle, Sherlock had the advantage of height and wiry strength. Belligerence still ran through him, heating his veins as he mouthed the doctor’s neck, feeling the thrill of the pulse beneath his lips and teeth, but he snapped his head back with a jerk as he felt John’s thigh thrust up between his legs, towards his cock – his prey was fighting back, seeking out his weak point –

Speedily he flipped John round, hustling him away from the wall, so that the man couldn’t brace himself against it to knee him. John moaned with frustration.

“No, Sherlock – no – “ Sherlock didn’t give him the chance to say anything more. With skill born from the two years he spent alone, tracing and capturing criminals before he worked more ‘officially’ with Lestrade, the detective tripped John so he fell forwards, to his knees. Using his height to restrain the doctor momentarily, he efficiently made and applied a makeshift gag, using John’s tie, before dragging him up again and pushing him backwards on to the bed, where he sprawled, eyes wide and staring up at Sherlock.

Not the staring again – that was what he’d tried to avoid in the first place, what had begun this course of action... Great shivers took hold of him once more, rolling down his spine, as he flung himself over the prostate man on the bed – he must pin him – hold him –

John whined through his gag, a much higher-pitched noise than Sherlock would have expected. He glanced briefly at John’s face but turned away, avoiding those eyes. He was at right angles to John, one hand pinning his shoulder, the other flung over his thighs to avoid the possibility of him kicking out. But that put his face exactly level with John’s groin. At that moment, the doctor gave a compulsive squirm and the feral instinct now given free rein in Sherlock reacted to the perceived attempt at escape. He switched his right hand from pinning John’s chest to a hold on his neck – not nearly hard enough to injure, but firm enough to make wriggling a source of extreme discomfort if necessary. The movement had drawn his face further down, even closer to John’s waist, and Sherlock could clearly feel the heat pouring off him. The flare of possession sparked again in his chest, beating the fear into a distant corner of his mind, and without a second thought, he opened his mouth and licked a long stripe up the side of John’s cock, still hidden underneath his jeans.

John managed to wail even through the gag. Sherlock didn’t want him to make that noise – just wanted to own him – and so he quickly shifted position so that he was seated astride John’s sweat-soaked chest, looking down his legs. One hand held his partner’s thighs still while the other gently unzipped his fly and drew out John’s cock, half-hard – a physiological response to stimuli, the oh-so-distant intelligent part of Sherlock noted.

John was jerking beneath the detective’s weight, causing his hand to slip on the shaft, eliciting a smothered gasp from the doctor. His compulsive struggles were stimulating Sherlock’s balls and cock, and Sherlock could feel himself hardening in response. It didn’t seem fair that he should be hard and not John; a wave of passion and emotion overtook him again and he swooped down on John’s cock, drawing the head into his mouth and sucking hard. His whole world shrunk and centred on the feeling of the shaft in his mouth; the responses he was drawing from John according to how he moved his tongue or altered the suction. He swirled just the tip of his tongue over the head whilst simultaneously taking more of the shaft into his mouth – John whined again. He sucked hard whilst using his free hand to toy with the base, tugging a soft rhythm, which brought forth a torrent of gasping, even through the gag. He traced light patterns over the two balls with just a fingertip, teasing the foreskin with the flat of his tongue, and John groaned so loudly and suddenly behind him that Sherlock withdrew abruptly in shock and fear.

Fear again. Just that one flash of it was enough to reignite the trembling in his limbs and to uncage the howling monster, briefly silenced, in his head. Quick as lightning he turned through 180 degrees to face John, whose face was red and flushed, pressed cheek down into the duvet. John had to help him. John was always willing to do anything to assist him – just think of the sacrifice he’d offered to make at the pool. Sherlock bent forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead – thank God his eyes were closed now, so he wouldn’t have to meet his gaze – and slid his pelvis downwards, along John’s torso. Both men moaned when their cocks met, John’s naked and hot and hard against the expensive fabric of Sherlock’s trousers, where an answering hardness throbbed, the feeling there now the uppermost thought in Sherlock’s mind. He wanted to feel John – but how could he free his shaft without letting John escape?

The doctor had ceased squirming, however – perhaps he could risk – as fast as he could manage, Sherlock canted his hips to one side and smoothly freed his cock. John had tried to thrust his hips upwards in the brief moment when Sherlock had removed the pressure from him, but in the same moment that Sherlock gasped out a firm ‘No!’ he had managed to angle himself back down again. Now both their naked members were touching – Sherlock held John’s shoulders tightly to the bed as he frotted against him, feeling tingling heat race through his groin and a glorious rushing blankness fill his brain.

John was sweating and writhing beneath him, eyes clenched tight shut. A fit of trembling seemed to overtake him and the academic part of Sherlock’s mind alerted him to what was about to happen. Hastily, he forced himself to be still; swinging his hips away by planting his feet on the floor, he removed any potential source of friction from John’s reach. John gasped and cried out, still muffled beneath the gag. He opened his eyes and Sherlock suddenly realised that tears were mingling with the sweat on John’s cheeks. He couldn’t take it, didn’t want to feel the guilt – that was worse than the terror –

“I can’t, John, I can’t – I can’t feel this fear again,” gasped Sherlock, panic making him incoherent.

John was trying to form words, muffled through the tie in his mouth. “Please Sherlock – please –“

Sherlock couldn’t stand the beseeching expression on John’s face. He bent forward and flipped John over on to his stomach, ripping down his trousers forcefully. He heard John gasp something as he applied spit-slicked fingers to his entrance – could it have been a smothered “Yes!” that he heard? The gasp was rapidly forgotten as he prepared the doctor, focusing entirely on working his fingers in and out, gradually inserting two, then three fingers and achieving a smooth rhythm. John still seemed to be fighting him, judging by the way he was twisting under his touch. Sherlock didn’t want that – he wanted to own – to possess – to mark –

He suddenly leaned forward and bit John, hard, just above his buttocks, below where he was conscious that his controlling fingers were bruisingly holding his partner to the bed. John made a sound that sounded like a half-sob, half moan of – was that passion, or pain? – and Sherlock could wait no longer. He pressed in with all his might, crying out at the tightness surrounding his shaft. He managed to pause when he was in – some non-animal part of him remembering the theory of allowing John time to adjust. John was still beneath him, for the first time since Sherlock had pounced, and the detective shifted a hand to his neck, to check his pulse. It was hammering – not surprising, considering John’s gasps – and then John shifted under him. Just that slight change of stimulation was too much for Sherlock’s self-control, and with a cry he pounded into the man overpowered between his thighs. He set a rapid rhythm, in-out-in-out, punctuated by his and John’s gasps. John’s head was thrashing against the duvet – Sherlock could see his eyes screwed shut again, his teeth clenched, his hands fisting in the sheets. His hands – Sherlock suddenly realised he wasn’t properly restraining his quarry. He reached forward, shifting position mid-thrust, and grabbed each of John’s wrists in his hands, continuing to pound into John as he did so – though at a subtly different angle.

Whether it was the slight change in direction or the grabbing of wrists, Sherlock wasn’t sure – but suddenly John howled into the bed. The doctor was overcome by a spasm and for a moment Sherlock was terrified that he’d hurt him – but the sudden clenching around his cock swiftly persuaded him otherwise. The flutter of John’s internal walls around his achingly hard shaft was enough to tip him over the edge and he came with the most intense orgasm he had ever experienced, shaking him head to foot, filling John with spurt after spurt of warmth, passion pouring out of him with every contraction of his muscles.

He flopped forward onto John’s back, cooling sweat mingling as they both gasped for breath. The feral haze that had settled over his brain quickly began to abate, and his mind cleared. He pulled out of John, who gave a soft cry at the new, hollow feeling – and the cry was enough to restore Sherlock completely to his senses. He staggered to his feet, staring, horror-struck at what he had done. John twisted his head back to look at him, again with the indefinable expression in his eyes, as the taller man yanked on his trousers and stumbled away from him. The doctor suddenly looked panic-stricken as he took in Sherlock’s distraught, remorseful expression, and he fumbled with the tie gagging him – to no effect, the knot was secure.

“John – I’m sorry – I can’t express – how can I ever – “ Sherlock’s words failed him, and he bolted from the room, just narrowly escaping John’s clutching hands as they reached for him. He fled out of the door and out of the pub, to spend the entire night pacing the country roads around the village. But not on to the moor. He couldn’t go on to the moor.

 

The sun was up and (judging by its elevation in the sky) it was about 10 am by the time Sherlock approached the village again. A large part of him had spent the night tempted to scramble on the first train back to London, to run away and to avoid confronting what he had inflicted on John – but he had mastered the temptation, the fear. This thought alone comforted him. It was not the act of a coward. Some simple deductions about the state of the milkman’s marriage and the paper-boy’s ambitions for an apprenticeship as he passed them further buoyed his spirits, and by the time he entered the churchyard there was hardly any hint left of the frightened beast about him. Seeing John, though, his breath quickened, and he again had to fight the impulse to bolt. If he had thrown away his only friendship – _fucked_ it away, for Christ’s sake – all whilst telling this beautiful, loyal man that he had never had any friends to start with – how could he live? Sherlock realised, with a sudden, agonising pang, that his worries of the night had all been to do with the loss of his friend, rather than the loss of his reason. Who was this man, who seemed to have become more important to him than his own mind? What did it mean?

John looked up as Sherlock reached him, a sombre expression on his face. He opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock held up a hand to stop him before he could utter a word.

“John – I cannot express enough my deep remorse and utter shame at what I put you through last night.” Sherlock cleared his throat and stared at his shoes, unable to look John in the eye. “I want you to come to the constabulary with me. You can give your statement to the police, and of course, I’ll plead guilty. You’ll never have to see me again. I won’t put you through a court case – they can sentence me, and I’ll go down without a word of complaint... Mycroft can give you money for counselling, he has access to my funds. I’ll – I’ll go now.” Abruptly, Sherlock turned on his heel and stepped towards the police station before the transfixed doctor could utter a word. Sherlock wasn’t surprised by John’s silence – traumatic experiences often manifested as selective mutism on the part of the victim...

“Sherlock.” The word, and a hand grabbing his arm, made Sherlock twist round in surprise.

“Yes, John?”

“You are a complete – fucking – idiot!”

Sherlock hung his head. If John wanted to rant at him, he had no right to complain. He waited for John to heap abuse over him, as he deserved.

“What do you think happened in that room last night?”

Sherlock was bewildered. Did John want him to give a further admission of what he’d done? Had he perhaps got a Dictaphone, recording for a confession? But he’d just told John that he would plead guilty...

“Well?” John was looking at him expectantly.

“I –“ Sherlock cleared his throat. “I was afraid – and angry – and aggressive – and I kissed you – and then I – I raped you...” His voice broke in misery and guilt as he choked over the last words.

John shook his head violently, to Sherlock’s shock. “You idiot,” he repeated, firmly. “You didn’t rape me – do you really think I wouldn’t have been able to stop you, at any point last night? I am a trained soldier after all –“

“But I pinned you down – you were crying –“

John’s face was filled with mingled frustration and concern. “No, no, no. I was – excited – turned on... eyes watering with – well – excitement and the thrill of it, I suppose.” He blushed, and shifted, his hand still reassuringly warm on Sherlock’s arm. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted that to happen between us.”

“You – you wanted that?”

“Yes. I wanted you.”

“But you were fighting –“ An uneasy suspicion crept into Sherlock’s mind. “If you’re saying this just to make me feel better about brutalizing you –“

“Nothing you did was brutal. I don’t think you could have hurt me – sadistically, I mean – even if you tried. I am your... friend... after all.” John’s eyes rested on Sherlock’s, as the detective met his gaze for the first time. There was still a touch of unease, as he said the word ‘friend’, Sherlock noted. Clearly his outburst in the dining room had left its mark. John had been forthright about his feelings. It was only fair to offer him the same courtesy.

“You aren’t my friend, John. I meant it. I don’t have friends. Until last night, I had one. But now –“ John’s eyes went suddenly wide, struck with that agony he’d seen the briefest glimpse of by the fire. Quickly, Sherlock continued. “But now – I have a lover. If you’ll have me, that is...” He searched John’s face anxiously for a response.

The response didn’t come verbally. Sherlock had never seen such joy in a human face before, catching just the briefest glimpse as John pulled him forward into the most passionate of kisses. Sherlock wondered, as their lips caressed each other, how he had ever managed to imagine that John had been trying to resist him the night before. The strength in his lover’s clutch was immense – he had not used a fraction of it during their encounter. Only then did Sherlock finally accept that his actions had truly been welcomed by this inexplicable, loyal, beautiful man.

John’s hands moved lower, down Sherlock’s body, and they curved together, their embrace passionate and warm amongst the cold stones and morning air. Everything was fresh.

  



End file.
